


82 Alfred Street

by misreall



Category: Only Lovers Left Alive (2013)
Genre: Dark Adam, F/M, Haunted Houses, Horror, Just being safe, Oral Sex, Psychological Trauma, Rough Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Vampire Bites, Vampires, probably more dubcon than non
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:27:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26772148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misreall/pseuds/misreall
Summary: When Olive finds out that the house where Only Lovers Left Alive was filmed has been made into a haunted attraction she has to go.
Relationships: Adam (Only Lovers Left Alive)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 50
Kudos: 68





	82 Alfred Street

**Author's Note:**

> For @snowqueen79 / @jtargaryen18's Haunted House 2020 challenge on Tumblr

On Halloween Olive found herself standing at the ass-end of a line of hipsters, horror buffs, fangirls, and film nerds outside of the house on 82 Alfred St, in Detroit to get in. When she had read that there was a fundraiser for the ongoing restoration of the formerly magnificent, brick mansion that had served as the main location for the film, and that on various nights different people involved in the making of the film would be in attendance as well, she had thrown caution and sense to the wind and bought a ticket for the last night of the event.

When Hiddleston himself was going to - allegedly - be there.

After all, what else did a newly single woman who had lost most of her social life in her breakup have to do but go alone on Halloween to a potentially dangerous city five hours from home, spend close to a thousand dollars figuring in the cost of gas, the hotel, missed work, and the not cheap ticket to a charity event? 

Well, there was always freezing to death while waiting to get in. 

Being alone at the end of the line, behind excited or too cool to be excited little knots of people, or couples, some leaning on each other, some taking selfies, some setting up plans for where they were going after, was cold as well. Olive had only the full, heavy moon and the rats that she could see now and then in the street for company.

Because of what the very lengthy release that Olive had had to sign called ‘the nature of the experience’ the staff were only sending the line through in groups of five. After what seemed to be an arbitrary amount of time - sometimes as little as five minutes, once a thirty, but usually around fifteen - another group of five would be ushered into the house by two people dressed as Ava and Dr. Watson stationed at the bottom of the stair leading to the wide porch and the front door. 

Finally on the sidewalk leading to the house, Olive did a quick headcount.

Uh oh.

There were fifteen people in front of her and no one behind.

As the line grew shorter she got more agitated. They would let her go with the last group, she tried to tell herself. It was a bit of a problem for her, anxiousness. Fear, even. Not fear of silly things like haunted houses and vampires. Fear of wastefulness. Fear of loneliness. Fear of missed opportunities.

Fear of the world.

When the last five went up and in, Olive found herself wringing her cold, gloved hands. “Um.. can I just tag along with their group?”

Ava, who had quite a good accent but not a very good wig, shook her head. “Code thing, love. No more than five in at a time.”

Watson peered down the street, “You’re the last one? Shit! Ok, let me see if we can reimburse yo-”

Olive’s anxiety threatened to spike into full panic. She had come here, by herself, throwing caution and cash to the wind to prove to herself she could, she would do something she wanted to do even if she wasn’t perfectly convinced it was the soundest idea. “Can’t I go by myself? I'm clearly less than five people.”

He frowned at her. He was a bit younger than Jeffrey Wright, but he looked remarkably like him otherwise. “I mean, I guess?” She could tell what he was thinking, that haunted houses were more for a group, at least a couple. What was so fun about being scared without having someone to turn a scream into a laugh with, or to hang on to?

She didn’t answer. What could she tell him? 

“We should let her in. I’m freezing my balls off in this stupid, little dress,” ‘Ava’ said, jumping up and down and rubbing her arms, sounded very middle American now. 

All of them stood there for a second on the too-quiet street, in a little cloud of frozen breaths until ‘Watson’ shrugged at Olive, “Ok, if you really want to. When you get in the door there are sets of white cotton gloves on the table - a lot of the furniture and shit is authentic and the owners don’t want people putting their grubby hands on everything, so put a pair on, and then go to each room as it lights up.” 

Olive nodded, more gleeful than she cared to admit, “Thank you!” 

The door opened on its own. Nice effect.

When the door closed behind her it gave a firm, echoing click, and the sounds of the wind, the little traffic on the street, the leaves scuddering on the sidewalk were locked out. She couldn’t even hear the other groups that had come in before her. Just her own breath. Her own heartbeat.

But ten minutes later she had to admit to herself that it was a little disappointing. 

Not the house itself. Within its beautiful bones was a perfect recreation of the decaying and chaotic horde that the ancient recluse who lived there surrounded himself with. Instruments on top of stacks of albums that gave off a dry, musty smell as their jackets turned to dust. Books with yellowed pages, marked and creased with reading after reading. 

The crudely soundproofed alcove where recording equipment and a drumset waited. 

The sherry glass on the coffee table, with one tiny, ruby drop in the bottom of the cup, a guitar left beside it, along with a Moleskine music notebook laying open with a pen ever so slightly rolling on it. Which was a really cool effect, even if it wasn’t scary. Which she guessed made sense, a few moderately gruesome moments aside OLLA wasn’t exactly a horror movie. 

Yet it all looked like Adam had only just walked into the other room, so that was cool, at least.

There were a _ few _ unsettling additions, things she knew weren’t in the movie, that were unnerving when she looked closer at them.

The gorgeous pink, half-moon couch that poor Ian had died on had some ugly stains on it, there was what had to be a dried pool of blood crusted into the faded Persian carpet just under her foot, and there was even a greasy, singed spot on the blackout curtains where Adam had parted them to look outside and burned his hand. Even the fringe on the lamp beside it had something black and sticky clumping it together...

Then there was the smell. Rot, organic and subtle, dust, deep and thick, and the copper tang of gore. It all but reeked of it. Like there was a working meat factory in the next room. 

She laughed nervously at herself, wondering if the house was scarier than she gave it credit for, since she was deeply unnerved. 

It was really, terribly quiet. Surely, all of the other groups that had been let in before her hadn’t made it all of the way thr-

Olive’s thought was interrupted by a light going on down the hall. Looking out of the large doorway she was surprised that it wasn’t coming from the kitchen but rather the large, Arts and Crafts light fixture that hung over the stairwell leading to the second floor. 

Maybe that was why she couldn’t hear anyone else. They went up and then probably down again, since a house from this era would have a servant’s staircase in the back. Clever.

The stairs grumbled and once or twice shrieked under her as she climbed. If the living room was eccentric the stairs were where the hoarding seemed to start. Pieces of rusty machinery, some of it with wires waving like cilia or something grasping in the cold breeze that was coming from above, crowded the tread, along with albums that slipped underfoot, books with torn jackets and crisped pages. 

It seemed unsafe, but perhaps the event wasn’t lasting long enough to bother with things like being up to code. 

The coppery smell grew stronger.

If anything it was quieter now than before. Only the faintest creak of a floorboard was coming from above and behind her. 

How were  _ that  _ many people  _ that _ quiet?

The moment her booted feet touched the second floor the light went out.

She wasn’t embarrassed to scream. Just a little bit.

A light went on, or rather, she could see another light as the door to what was the master bedroom in the round, tower-like front corner of the house opened. Strangely, by some very clever effect, the space leading to it remained pitch dark.

“Another one of you?”

The deep, sonorous voice, irritated and amused, sent a thrill through her. Oh, fuck, Tom Hiddleston really was here! 

Olive jittered and fidgeted and tried to calm herself but her heart was racing too much and she was lightheaded, and FUCK she was ALONE with him!

The shape of him, tall and lean, in a dressing gown, leaned against the doorframe, his mane a cloud about his head. Though Olive was only about ten feet away from him the backlight made it impossible to make out anything but that shape.

“Alright, zombie girl, come and gawk,” there was an ironic lift to his voice that didn’t seem very ... Adam-like, even if the sentiment did. Not waiting for her, he turned back into the room and in a few seconds, she could hear the metallic sound of an unamped electric guitar being noodled on.

Picking her way through who knew what - Olive found herself kicking things that were sometimes hard, sometimes distressingly soft - she moved towards the light. 

The room looked exactly as it had in the movie. The circular wall of heroes, the massive, surprisingly well cared for bed with red hangings that proved even Adam, no matter how much he might protest, had a little Gothic flair to him, the rugs underfoot, the heavy curtains.

On the floor, the bodies of two, no, three people, or more, maybe, were in a tangled pile. It was a discordant note since the vampires in the film didn’t kill or even drink directly, but then that wasn’t very scary and this was supposed to be a haunted house. 

The dummies must have come from Hollywood. They looked too good for Michigan. 

Facing half away from her, Adam sat on the bed playing the guitar, his supposed victims at his bare feet. “I thought I was full. I thought I was full for the first time in so long, but who can say no to dessert?”

“Mr. Hiddleston, I-”

He turned to look at her. 

“Don’t you start, too. My name is Adam.”

Blood, some fresh, some dried to brown, streaked down from his mouth, down his long neck, down to his bare, ivory chest. He rose to move towards her, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking at the blood. “So sorry,” he lifted the end of the bedcurtains and cleaned his face, “it’s pretty fucking rude to approach someone with your mouth still wet from the last person you sucked off, isn’t it?”

Olive gasped, feeling her nipples grow so tight they hurt even as she was horrified, and stepped backward. 

A hand clutched her ankle.

Olive shrieked, jumping. The girl, the girl who was in the line before, wearing the kelly green vintage jacket that she’d admired, gasped and clutched, trying to pull herself up against her leg. “Please,” she tried to say, “please…”

Her throat was almost gone. The sound of the words whistled out of the jagged holes in what was left of her neck.

Adam, Hiddleston, whoever the fuck it was stood and took a quick step over, slamming a bare foot onto that ruined neck, twisting. “Tenacious little thing. Too bad she tasted like ass.”

The cracking of the already damaged bones echoed through the room and through Olive’s veins. 

Panic, wild, senseless panic, overrode everything else, and she bolted.

The light now, for whatever reason, spilled into the hall, and she saw what she had stepped through to get there. 

Then she really screamed.

He pulled her against him, back to front, the grip of his long fingers hard enough that she knew it would leave bruises, then he wrapped both arms about her, interlocking over her like a straitjacket. Leaning down, his coarse hair tenderly abraided her cheek and he whispered in her ear, cold, coppery breath making her shudder with both dread and something luscious. “You really shouldn’t believe everything you see in the movies. A beautiful, sullen,  _ harmless _ vampire? One that's pretty enough to touch yourself to? With an artist’s soul?”

His teeth scraped at her cheek, “Darling, there is no such fucking monster.”

“I-” she tried to choke out an answer, but she couldn’t remember the words. 

“All there is in most of your little lives is some pleasure, some pain, and the all of the dull fucking bits between. Why not quit while you’re ahead? There is barely any of this world left worth living in, anyway.”

His hair smelled of dust, the old dressing-gown of dry rot, his breath of copper. 

This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t. It couldn’t. Her mind was trying to deny what her body was telling it. That this was real. Nononono….

He freed a hand to lift her skirt and rub between her legs, the hard rub of the heel of his palm leaving her gasping and pushing back against it. 

It took only a few moments for her already stressed, tired body to wear itself out struggling fruitlessly to get free. Olive sagged, a small, pitiful whimper escaping her. 

It was more than real.

And it felt so good. 

His body pushing into her felt good. 

Everything, suddenly, was so good.

His deep voice went on, stroking her now more brokenly, receptive mind. “Good doesn’t usually triumph. Love withers away.” He sounded bitter for a moment, “Or dies. Or in my case, we murder it, in a bad moment.” 

He was wistful then, but only for a moment.

Then he snapped back to his monologue.

“People don’t listen to their better angels. A fuck, however hard, rarely changes anyone’s life for the better. But we do it anyway. We do all of it anyway. Loving, fighting, fucking. It passes the goddamned, endless time, doesn’t it? I learned all of that too late, the same as this dying world. Kindness is going to have no place in what is to come.” 

Lax, Olive sagged back against him. Where he played with her was swollen, her arousal having come on so quickly it prickled and ached with blood flow and emptiness.

“Oh, you’re wet already. Good girl. Or would you rather be a bad one? I can make you either.”

Olive lost track of what he was saying. 

He made a fist between her legs, shredding her sodden panties, twirling her about, over the bodies, over the blood-soaked floor, laying her out on the bed. “Show me your tits, love. Unbutton that coat, lift up that shirt, and show me.”

Olive did what he said, not able to not do it. She yanked her blouse and bra up and he crouched over her, stroking them, and himself, his dick out of the leather pants he wore, obscenely large and too red, filled with so much blood. Writhing under the pinches he gave her, she grabbed his thighs.

“Open your mouth, like a good girl. You are the good girl type. I can see it in those ‘daddy fuck me’ eyes.” 

Adam crawled up her body and teased her lips with the head of his dick, the salty taste of it, the hard, curved length of it making her mouth water. She had only done this a few times before, begrudgingly, but that little taste made her hungry. 

As chokingly long and thick as it was, his penis was cold in her mouth. Full and helpless, Olive let him fuck her mouth. “I could force myself down your throat. Make you love gagging on me, but that part of you is for something else.” Her jaw ached, and saliva soaked her as blood had soaked him.

His beautiful face was barely visible through her tearing eyes, but she stared at him as his back arched and when he stopped himself before coming she wanted to cry. 

“Don’t worry, zombie girl, you can have it back,” he mocked.

Then he spread her legs and drew a finger through her wet, “Let’s get a taste, shall we?” he said. 

His tongue in her cunt was nearly as cold as his dick her mouth. It numbed her enough that she didn’t come immediately, so he could lap and tease and when one of his fangs nicked her clit before sucking it Olive planted her feet on the mattress and rutted upwards, fucking his mouth the way he had fucked hers.

“Bad girl, maybe after all,” he purred against her, the rumble of his baritone almost enough to tip her over into an orgasm. He crawled back up her body, as she tried to find some bit of him to hump, but he held himself at arm’s length above her. 

He lowered himself, his dick teasing her cunt, his fangs teasing her neck. They both felt so good. Everywhere they touched needed more and more

“Should I bite you or fuck you? Bite or fuck?” 

“Both,” she managed to say, “both, please both, please fuck me, please bite me, please…” she sobbed, both parts of her aching to be breached.

“Good girl, begging so politely.”

The sharp, almost tearing pain of his fangs ripping open her neck and the pure, needy pleasure of his dick thrusting into her hard and deep enough that his hips bruised her, sent her overwhelmed senses over the edge. The scream of her orgasm was garbled by the pressure of his mouth on her throat. 

The slap of his skin against hers, as her wet spurted between them, was relentless. For a moment he looked down at her as her blood rolled hotly down to dampen the blankets. “You’re fucking delicious.”

Then he started to suck. 

Olive knew she was going to die, even as each mouthful he took from her made him swell even more in her, soon she was a limp thing he was using at both ends and she felt another, slower climax building even as her sight grew dim. 

A long, clever hand worked between them, and a hard pinch on her already perfectly painful clit made her heart lurch, her cunt spasm and milk him, and her death’s blood pour into his mouth, honey-sweet with her pleasure even as she more or less died beneath him, her final throes finishing him off as well.

When he finished, Adam fell to the side of the woman’s chilling body, panting despite not needing air, his mind wonderfully blank. After a few moments, he leaned up on his elbow, smiling down at her. She was a bit short but all that also meant was she would fit more easily in the Jag’s trunk. 

He could have the clothes or the girl altered, whichever would be easier.

By the time she returned it would be almost dawn, and he would have her safely ensconced in his new house in Cleveland, and he could start working on making her over.

He needed a new Eve for his new life, and she would do nicely. 

Once he was done with her.


End file.
